


Greetings from Nowhere

by RecklessDaydreamer



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Heist, M/M, Postcards, kind of a fix-it?, why can't you two just talk to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:54:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessDaydreamer/pseuds/RecklessDaydreamer
Summary: When Rita drops the day’s mail on Juno’s desk, he spots the postcard immediately. Juno picks it up curiously. He’s gotten a lot of strange mail in his years as a detective. Never a postcard, though.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few weeks ago but decided to wait to post it until after the finale. Hence, it is now something of a fix-it fic. (shrugs)

 

When Rita drops the day’s mail on Juno’s desk, he spots the postcard immediately. Juno picks it up curiously. He’s gotten a lot of strange mail in his years as a detective. Never a postcard, though. There’s no return address, but he knows who it’s from anyway. He can almost hear Nureyev’s voice echoing out of the sleek, looping cursive.

It makes his stomach clench, how happy he feels to recognize it. He reminds himself, _you abandoned him, you don’t get to feel happy about this._

Still. He’s curious to see what Nureyev wrote.

_Dear Juno,_

_I’m writing to you from the Interplanetary Museum of Art. It’s a fascinating place. Their collections are unparalleled. Apparently the works of Claudia Devshire are a must-see. They’ve accumulated several galleries full of her paintings that nobody seems to want. Can’t think why—they’re shockingly valuable. There’s quite a market for old Outer Rim art right now._

_Hope you’re well._

There’s no signature.

Juno flips the postcard over. On the front there’s a picture of a framed painting of a fountain in a square. A Devshire, presumably. It looks like it’d fence. The stamp in the bottom right corner of the card shows the museum’s logo and coordinates. It’s in Mnemosyne, one of the vast frozen cities of Neptune.

(Sure, he was the one who left, and sure, Nureyev simply disappeared afterward—probably in exactly an hour and thirty-seven minutes—but… this postcard.)

Juno puts the postcard in his desk drawer and tries to forget about it.

He almost regrets not doing anything about it when, two days later, the Interplanetary Museum of Art reports the theft of three old paintings by Claudia Devshire. No evidence, no suspects, no leads.

What? No, of course he wasn’t compulsively checking the Mnemosyne news feeds. That would be… ridiculous.

 

It’s bare weeks before another postcard arrives, this time from one of Earth’s arching, metallic cities. _Greetings from Nairobi_ is printed over a gleaming skyline and a terraformed landscape of mountains and forests. A broad river curves through the city, glittering as brightly as the sleek metal of the buildings.

 _Dear Juno_ ,

 _Nairobi is really quite the place. I’ve been sightseeing for the past few days._ (Somehow Juno doubts that.) _City Hall is open to the public right now, but it’s about to undergo renovations of its security system. Apparently I got here just in time to see the vaults before it’s closed down. The amount of stuff in there is simply ridiculous._

_Have you ever been to Earth? It’s worth a trip, if you haven’t. Practically next door in galactic terms._

Tantalizing, cheeky, and (still) totally unsigned. It’s like Nureyev _wants_ Juno to turn him in. Well… he won’t. Reverse psychology, hah—see how Nureyev likes it.

(Juno never has been to Earth, that’s true.)

True to form, Juno sees a notice a few days later on the intergalactic police union’s online message board. (Rita hacked him a back door some years back, and he hasn’t gotten caught yet.) Several classified documents have been lightfingered out of the Nairobi archives. Security cameras picked up a lithe, dark figure in several locations. But security was already closed down for the renovations when the theft was discovered, and most of the tape is corrupted beyond retrieval.

The report is silent on the contents of said papers, but they’re probably blackmail-worthy.

It’s not a conflict of interest if Juno hasn’t been hired to look into it.

                                                                                          

When the next postcard arrives, Juno can’t figure out what Nureyev could possibly be doing on Vishnu. From what he remembers, the planet is a tiny one out on the Outer Rim. Its largest industry is subsistence farming, and it has no exports besides the occasional vein of silver uncovered by a farmer. There really isn’t anything to steal. Nureyev’s note doesn’t give much of an explanation, either.

_Dear Juno,_

_I haven’t been to Vishnu in quite a while. It’s a picturesque little planet. I plan to spend some time in the capital, maybe reconnect with a few old friends. It’s rather lonely roaming the galaxy. Perhaps you’d stop by? It would be a nice change of pace from Hyperion City. And I’d like to see you again._

Juno sets the postcard aside and digs out a map of the Outer Rim. As he suspected, Vishnu is something of a backwater. Why Nureyev would have friends there is beyond him.

Looking back at the map, Juno notices that Vishnu is one of a trio of planets with interlocking orbits. Its sisters are Shiva and—Juno has to read it twice—Brahma.

Oh.

Well, that explains it.

Juno silently wishes Nureyev well with whatever guerilla resistance plot he’s instigating this time and gets back to work. He checks the Brahma news feeds occasionally, just in case.

                                                             

The postcards start to pile up, arriving without warning once a month or so. They come from planets and moons and even (once, memorably) an interstellar cruise ship. Six months after the first postcard, Juno receives one addressed from a spa resort on Venus. The picture on the front shows vacationers soaking in a hot spring under a clementine sky.

When Juno sees it, his back aches in longing. He fell asleep in his chair last night, in a hurry to close a case and too stressed to relax.

He turns the card over to read the back. It’s full of that same elegant script, done with a nice ballpoint pen. (One of his, if he recalls. He hasn’t been able to find that pen since Nureyev left.)

_Dear Juno,_

_This resort really is fantastic. I’ve been told the hot springs are second to none. They’re certainly doing wonders for my poor leg. It never really healed after that business with our mutual friend—the anthropology professor, you must remember her. I don’t believe I’ll ever forget._

_I seem to recall you’d mentioned wanting to visit Venus. If you want to join me, I’ll be around. I’m sure a soak would help your back._

As always, it’s unsigned.

Juno stares at the picture again. Steam curls up against the pale orange sky. The water glitters in a gradient of jewel tones, yellow and blue and green. It is _incredibly_ tempting.

He imagines, briefly, packing up and catching the next shuttle. Breakfast all day, dancing all night, drowning his sorrows in either whiskey or hot springs… seeing Nureyev.

(There’s that twinge of guilt, right on cue.)

Nope. He can’t. He has a backlog of cases and bills to pay. This is not the time to take a spa day.

Juno tacks the postcard to his bulletin board, photo side up, overlapping a map of Hyperion City and some notes from the Keeley murder case. When the lights are dim and it’s dark outside—when he’s pulling yet another all-nighter—the steam from the springs looks like it’s going to come ghosting right out of the printed frame. In Juno’s mind it smells like Nureyev’s cologne.

 

 “Mister Steel? I think we’ve got a wrong address on this one.”

Juno looks over Rita’s shoulder at the stack of mail she’s going through. It’s a postcard, addressed not to him but to “Dahlia Rose”.

“No,” Juno says. “That’s for me. Thanks, Rita.”

“You must have a secret admirer or something, Mister Steel. How many of those have you gotten?”

“No idea. Haven’t been keeping track.” (That’s a lie. This is number nine.)

_My dear Dahlia,_

_I’ve just come upon the most unusual business proposition. If I get this right, I stand to gain a fortune. Of course, I can’t tell you anything. It’s all very secret. I do wish you were here to help me—you know how_ terrible _I am at bargaining, and these diamonds (oops!) are not to be believed. Apparently they’re the last of their mine. They have the most marvelous luster I’ve ever seen. Wish me luck!_

And this time it’s signed:

_All my love –Duke_

So they’re back to this old game. How long has it been since the Oasis Casino? Feels like years. He grabs a sheet of paper and scribbles a quick reply.

_Dear Duke,_

_That does sound exciting. I wish I could be there, but you know how business is these days. I never have a moment to rest, let alone visit you. Be careful with this deal. Remember what happened with that contract last summer? You’ve always liked get-rich-quick schemes. Think before you sign anything. Save some of those diamonds for me._

(And then, the most honest part of this letter:) _When will you be back? I miss you._

_Love, Dahlia_

Juno glances at the postmark. The Hotel Royale, on Mercury. He addresses the envelope to Duke Rose, c/o Hotel Royale, and tells Rita to send it express.

A week later, he gets a reply. Another postcard, of course. This one shows the hotel silhouetted against  a Mercury moonrise, the kind of thing you’d buy in any knickknack gift shop.

_Dear Juno,_

_It’s so very boring pretending to be an airheaded socialite. I’d much rather play the grizzled pyramid schemer, but my_ friends _at the Royale would never have agreed to cut a deal with me then. Nevertheless, your note did wonders for my cover, so I have you to thank for that._

_I got you a souvenir. It should arrive at the same time as this note, but interplanetary post is so unreliable._

_Miss you too._

“Rita!”

“Mister Steel?”

“Has anything else come in the mail?”

“Just this little box thing,” Rita yells back. “You want me to check it for letter bombs?”

Juno hurries out. “I don’t think it has a letter bomb in it, Rita.”

“But Mister Steel…”

“I know who it’s from.” Juno rips the tape on the little black box. Sure enough, it’s not a letter bomb.

Rita peeks over his shoulder. “Ooh, who sent you _those_?”

Juno shakes his head—no good way to reply—and puts the earrings on right then and there. Each diamond is perfectly cut, glittering with fractals of light.

There’s a slip of paper in the bottom of the box. _Saved some for you. –PN_

Juno hasn’t heard from Nureyev in three months.

He’s not _worried_. Of course not. Just… mildly anxious. And definitely not pining, whatever Rita says. Whatever they are—pen pals? Well, Nureyev is absolutely free to vanish off into the galaxy.

Nevertheless, it’s almost a relief to get word from the thief again. What is most certainly _not_ a relief is that word comes by Nureyev himself, sitting in Juno’s chair with his feet up on the desk. Sure, it’s been a year since they parted (since Juno left him), but it’s not like Juno’s been missing Nureyev or anything.

“Hello, Juno,” the thief says, sounding inordinately pleased with himself.

Juno groans. “You could’ve knocked. Or called. Hell, you could’ve sent a postcard.”

Nureyev shrugs elegantly. “That would take all the fun out of it.”

“Excuse me if I don’t feel like tracking you down every time you change your name. Who are you this time, anyway?”

Nureyev ignores the question. “I do have a request.”

“How illegal is it?”

“Oh, rather illegal.” He sounds all too comfortable with that.

“Can’t help you.”

“Juno, I know you’re on the right side of the law, but it’ll only be one night. We can even take your car. You still have the Ruby Seven, don’t you? We’ll just take a quick jaunt over to Minerva Heights and then an exhilarating ride under the stars.”

This conversation is a tightrope Juno is absolutely not willing to walk. Nureyev sounds so familiar, if perhaps a little more distant than the last time they spoke.“Stop trying to seduce me, this is serious.”

“Oh, for the love of—I am not trying to seduce you.”

“Yes, you are.”

Nureyev looks hurt. Unfortunately, it’s an adorable expression on him.

Juno shakes his head. “On any other day I would. But Khan’s just itching to lock me up. Has been since the Lake case, really. So I can’t help you with the con. Whatever it is this time.” Nureyev looks like he’s about to explain it; Juno steamrolls right past. “I don’t want to know.”

“I just need a getaway driver,” Nureyev protests.

Juno strolls to the window and stares out, feigning deep thought. He already knows exactly what he’s going to say. Finally he turns to face Nureyev, who’s taken his feet off the desk and is looking over his shoulder at him. “Obviously I can’t aid and abet a crime.”

Nureyev raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

 “But if I was picking you up for some other reason…”

Nureyev catches on. His eyes fairly glitter. “I know a restaurant with the best steak you’ll ever eat. Care to join me?”

This is a _fucking terrible idea_.

\--

Juno pulls up outside Laburnum Mansion at eight o’clock sharp. He’s just closed two cases in the same day, and he’s still riding high on the combined power of adrenaline and paychecks. The street is quiet; there isn’t much real nightlife in Minerva Heights unless some rich second son wobbles home drunk.

He parks the car and tries to relax. Nobody will recognize the Ruby—it’s a well-kept secret even in thieving circles. And Juno changed the plates. He probably didn’t need to; the car is fairly nondescript as-is. The paint is seamless black, high-end but not so out of the ordinary that anyone would look twice. What’s the use of a getaway car if you can’t disguise it in a pinch?

The brassy blare of a security alarm splits the air. Juno jumps, one hand going to his gun. In Laburnum Mansion, lights start to flick on. The Ruby’s engine catches of its own volition, and the car’s jets hum to life, lifting it the first few inches off the ground.

The passenger door bursts open and Peter Nureyev crashes into the seat. “Juno, _drive!_ ” he cries, eyes alight.

Juno floors the gas, yelling, “Wasn’t we pretending this is a casual dinner date?”

“It is!” Nureyev laughs. He glances out the back window. “Oh, Juno, you might want to take a detour. There’s someone on our tail.”

The Ruby Seven makes an _eeble-deep_ noise, the kind that means _I have a plan and it involves deadly weapons!_

Nureyev says delightedly, “I didn’t know the Ruby had anti-aircraft missiles.”

“Goddammit, I thought I disabled those,” Juno groans, spinning the wheel and sliding the car through a alley so tight he nearly shears off the wing mirror. “Press _no_ , would you?”

The car whistles, a little sadly. They emerge onto another moonlit boulevard, and the Ruby slews sideways as Juno jerks the wheel upward, sending them into a whiplash-inducing skid just over the rooftops.

“Diverting power to engine?” Nureyev asks, reading off the console.

Juno quickly shifts into high gear, and the car rockets skyward, engine roaring. “Are we still on for dinner?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t lie to you. Their steak really is sublime.”

“Fine. Which exit?” Juno makes a hairpin turn onto the freeway. They soar above Minerva Heights, dipping in and out of streams of cars. Any security detail that might have been after them has been left far behind.

“359.” Nureyev folds down his collar and unzips his jacket halfway, revealing a crisp white shirt. He pulls a neatly folded tie out of one pocket and knots it quickly around his neck. When Juno looks back, Nureyev’s transformed himself from a cat burglar to a socialite in a bespoke suit. Even the gloves he’d been wearing have been folded into a neat pocket square.

Juno reaches over and turns on the radio, filling the car with a soft buzz of music. “So what’d you take?” he asks quietly.

Nureyev affects a look of indignation but doesn’t deny it. “Nothing they’ll miss.”

“And I suppose you tripped the alarm for fun?”

“Now, Juno, what makes you think that was me?”

“You burst into my car and told me to drive right after the alarm went off.”

“Cause and effect is so futile, Juno dear.”

Nureyev directs Juno to an address in a neighborhood near Minerva Heights—not quite as fancy but still high-end. At the Lighthouse Grill, there’s a corner table reserved for two under the name “Earl Macavity”, apparently Nureyev’s current alias.

The steak, true to Nureyev’s word, is fantastic. And so Juno finds himself sitting across from a master thief and drinking scotch as said thief sips red wine and regales him with tales of the more interesting things he’s stolen lately. It’s the best evening Juno’s had in… well, a while.

He missed this. He really, really did. And yet—Nureyev is just going to leave again, or Juno will. That’s how it always goes. That's the game they play.

Finally Nureyev sits back and stretches, catlike. “My, it’s gotten late. I’m sorry, Juno, but I have a midnight flight to catch.” He eyes the detective like he’s waiting for an objection (hoping, maybe), but Juno just stands and shrugs on his coat. 

They drive to the depot in silence. Downtown Hyperion is a nova of light just blocks away. Despite that, the street outside the depot is empty; most people travel by day. Juno parks and walks Nureyev inside. They join the drift of people moving toward shuttle number three, the only one with lights on and engine purring.

Nureyev produces a ticket from one of his many pockets and feeds it into the kiosk at the foot of the boarding ramp. The gate swings open, but he doesn’t walk through. Instead he turns to Juno and holds out a hand to shake. “I suppose this is goodbye, Detective Steel.”

Juno takes his hand. They stand like that for a long moment.

Nureyev says—quietly, almost surprised—“You’re wearing the earrings.”

Juno fiddles with one of the diamond studs. “They were a gift,” he replies. “From someone I used to know.” Nureyev hasn’t let go of Juno’s hand, and Juno doesn’t want him to. “Where are you going?” he asks quietly.

“I have some… errands… to take care of, but after that I’ll go wherever the wind blows me.” There’s a little of that seductive warmth back in Nureyev’s voice.

It’s a balancing act, this moment. Juno can feel the wire quivering beneath his feet, beckoning him into a freefall.

“Do you have to leave?” he asks.

Nureyev gives him a sad smile. “As always, my dear. I have to keep moving. Earl Macavity is a one-night name and my papers expire tomorrow.”

“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” Juno says softly, and _no_ that is not a tremble in his voice.

“I seem to recall something of the sort.”

“Can we change the ending?” Juno asks.

“You mean if I didn’t leave? We tried that…” and _there_ it is—the hurt seething under Nureyev’s calm mask. Juno can finish the sentence: _we tried that, and you left_ _me anyway._

“Nureyev. Peter—” Juno swallows hard. “Look, I know this is all my fault—”

“It’s both of ours, probably,” Nureyev says.

“No. Let me be the one sorry about this, okay?”

“You should never have to apologize for anything, Juno, but… I suppose I’ll accept that one.” Something shatters in his voice as he says it—something deep, something _Juno_ broke.

“I’ve missed you,” Juno says quietly.

“So have I.”

“Why’d you send all those postcards?” The thought occurs to him suddenly. He really has been curious. Why would Nureyev take the time to do something so mundane, so easily traced, for—well, _him_?

And Nureyev looks away. Just for a second, but it’s enough for Juno to tell how nervous, how goddamn shy he was about those postcards. “Not having a name… it’s useful, but it’s lonely. Nobody on Brahma knows me. But you do. It's like having an anchor, knowing you're here."

Juno leans in and kisses him. (Screw safety. He’ll tap dance across this tightrope until they both fall. At least they’ll do it together.) Nureyev’s lips are too gentle, like he doesn’t want to scare Juno away. Slim fingers hook Juno’s collar, tugging him closer. That cologne—god, Nureyev’s cologne still smells exactly like he remembered, crisp and haunting. Kissing Nureyev is like that brief car chase in Minerva Heights: all cold chiaroscuro and midnight recklessness, and it might end in a fiery crash, but oh, Juno doesn’t care.

The shuttle’s rockets rev, and Juno pulls away. “You should go.” _Or I’ll never want to leave you._

“I wish I didn’t have to, Juno darling.” There’s a strange glitter in Nureyev’s eyes, like city lights and stardust. “I’ll be back… soon, I suppose. If you’ll have me.”

And then he’s hurrying up the ramp and vanishing into the shuttle.

Juno sits in the Ruby Seven and watches the shuttle flinging itself into orbit, a lazy streak of orange fire in its wake, and almost—almost—wishes he was on it.

 _“Soon, I suppose.”_ Juno reminds himself of that as he puts the car in drive and heads for home. The memory of that last kiss ghosts across his lips.

For the first time in so long, he doesn’t feel quite so alone.

 


End file.
